Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  He pushed himself harder, faster. He was running for his life. There were sirens blaring in his head. He had no way of knowing if they were real or imagined. His heart thumped inside his chest and his boots pounded on the tarmac. His breath roared in the helmet.

  No one saw me. He clung to that hope, repeated it to himself like a mantra. No one except the woman in the tree, of course. And she was dead. Almost certainly dead.

  He rounded a curve in the road and saw the bike, partially concealed by the thick hedge that bordered Hurst Lane. He covered the distance like an Olympic sprinter. Like a hero.

  Then he skidded to a stop, and saw how stupid he'd been.

  He could be a hero. The man who stopped a killer. For half a second he saw himself in that role, paraded and garlanded and acclaimed by the nation. Pictured himself on TV and brought on stage at public events. Waving to the crowds like a Roman emperor.

  Then he thought of the discrepancies. What was he doing there? How had he disarmed the killer and overpowered him without a struggle? Why did he shoot him at such close range?

  It was a stupid idea, the product of a mind in panic. He wasn't thinking clearly. Besides, he had never craved the limelight. He belonged in the shadows.

  He told himself to get a grip.

  The bike was a Kawasaki KDX200, lightweight and fast, road legal but well equipped to handle rough farm tracks and fields. He'd bought it two months ago for eight hundred pounds in cash. Registered it in a false name, kept it garaged where no one knew him. He was especially glad of that caution now.

  He gripped the handlebars and pulled the bike upright. Then he turned his head slowly, scanning in every direction. There was no movement, no sign of anyone. No birds singing. No engines. Just a tremendous crushing silence.

  Then suddenly the whoop of a siren, not close but carrying well in the still morning air. The sound chilled the sweat on his face and made him shiver. He looked down at the bike and realised how lucky he was. The siren had saved him from another fuck-up.

  The police were in the village, less than half a mile away. If he started the bike they'd hear it easily. Maybe they wouldn't think anything of it, but maybe they would. He couldn't take the chance.

  He wheeled the bike as fast as he could, jogging beside it. He took the turning towards the farm, bouncing the Kawasaki along the beaten dirt track. Ice gleamed like broken glass in shallow ruts. His lungs burned and his muscles screamed, but he ignored them and allowed himself a little hope. You can still do this. You can still get away with it.

  The farmhouse loomed into view beyond a line of beech trees. He shuddered. The farmhouse was where it had all gone wrong.

  He saw the front door was open slightly. He thought he'd shut it, but couldn't remember for sure. He kept an eye on it as he passed, half expecting someone to spring out.

  Beyond the farmhouse the lane twisted to the right, between a barn and a large corrugated-steel shed. It should be safe to ride from here. The buildings and trees would muffle the sound.

  Mounting the bike, he raised the visor and wiped his face. As he glanced back, he caught a flash of light in the sky. A helicopter, no more than a speck against the Downs. The perspective made it appear to be gliding along the top of the hills. It was heading for the village.

  For a second he was transfixed. The enormity of the event was starting to sink in. It wasn't just murder. It was fucking slaughter.

  He imagined alarms sounding across a vast network. Emergency services descending on an enormous scale, the media hot on their heels. The impact reverberating around the whole world.

  This realisation sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. With it came a peculiar spreading warmth in his chest. Gradually he recognised it as pride. He'd faced terrible obstacles, and against the odds he had come out on top.

  The bike kick-started on the first attempt. He set off along the track, heading north of the farm. He looked back again, but couldn't see the helicopter. He forgot about it and accelerated, keeping a light grip on the handlebars as the bike juddered over the track.

  He'd planned the route carefully. After half a mile he turned off the main track and cut through a gap in the hedgerow, joining a bridle path that took him north-west. He raced past winter fields of dark churned mud, glistening with frost like icing sugar on melted chocolate. Another mile, then left across a meadow of wild flowers.

  He threaded through a knot of trees that marked the northern perimeter of the farm, then burst on to the road and sped away. And as he did, he allowed himself a brief scream of laughter. He had never in his life felt so vital, so extraordinary, so complete.

  He had found his vocation.

  Eight

  The first media report was broadcast at 9 a.m., by a local independent radio station. The BBC picked it up shortly afterwards and prepared to insert a mention into the next round of headlines. At this stage it was merely a brief, unconfirmed report of a shooting in a small Sussex village. News producers monitored the situation before deciding whether to break into regular programming.

  Craig didn't hear the first bulletin. He was watching Spongebob Squarepants and refereeing between his children. Usually goodnatured and co-operative, this morning they seemed to have picked up on his irritable mood and were determined to push him over the edge.

  Nina had gone to the office again. Christmas aside, she'd worked something like seven out of the past eight weekends. Usually Saturday mornings, but once or twice the whole day, and a couple of Sunday afternoons.

  'I need to do it,' she had said. 'My career matters to me.'

  'More than your family?' he'd retorted. He stopped short of saying, More than your marriage?

  'No. And don't try emotional blackmail. Have I ever complained when work took you away for days or even weeks at a time?'

  'That's why I went freelance, to have more control over my life.' But it was a valid point. 'Isn't it something you can do here?'

  'I already work from home two days a week. I can hardly object to a few hours at the weekend.'

  She left the house at eight. Her office was in the centre of Crawley, a ten-minute drive away. She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and promised to be back as soon as she could.

  'Give me a rough idea,' he said as she opened the front door. Clad only in jogging trousers and a t-shirt, the freezing cold air was a pleasurable shock.

  'I don't know. One o'clock. Two at the latest.'

  'Two at the latest,' he repeated, as if her own words might bind her.

  She nodded, unlocked the car and got in. There was something unreadable on her face as she backed off the driveway. A look he was seeing more and more frequently, and didn't like at all.

  During the ad break he got up to make coffee and asked if the children wanted another drink.

  'More juice, please,' said Maddie, thrusting her cup at him.

  'Can we turn over?' said Tom. He reached for the remote control, only to find his sister snatching at it. In doing so she slopped the dregs of her orange juice over the sofa.

  'Bloody hell!' Craig roared. Loud enough to make both children flinch. He was a big man, six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and often he was clumsy himself. Part of him knew he was overreacting even as he took the cup from her, but then Tom grabbed the remote control. 'You're not having that, either,' Craig said, and Tom, seeing the look on his face, meekly handed it over.

  'Fetch a cloth to wipe this up,' he said. Maddie hurried from the room, bottom lip trembling. Craig felt the familiar pang of guilt that his anger had upset them, and made sure he thanked her when she returned with a hand towel. Not what he'd asked for, but it would do.

  'Go and play upstairs,' he suggested. 'Better still, tidy your bedrooms.'

  Alone in the room, he did some idle channel-hopping. On News 24 a grim-faced presenter said, '. . . village of Chilton.' He'd already pressed the remote again, and had to wait for it to go back. This time he caught, 'More on that as soon as we have it.'

  The newsreader went on
to the next story. Craig sat forward, watching the ticker flow along the bottom of the screen: Bush declares real improvements in Iraq. Then, beneath the banner of BREAKING NEWS: Reports of a serious shooting incident in a Sussex village. Emergency services are at the scene.

  At first the words didn't sink in. Chilton was practically the most sedate place he'd ever been. He could only imagine that someone had committed suicide with a shotgun.

  There was a cordless phone on the unit next to the TV. He picked it up and pressed number four on the speed dial. Heard the rapid set of bleeps and then a moment's silence. Instead of a ringing sound, a recorded voice announced, 'Sorry, we have been unable to connect your call.'

  He got a dialling tone and tried again. Same result. He tried dialling the number from memory, in case the programmed number was wrong. Same result.

  It didn't mean anything, necessarily. Far too early to think the worst. But still he felt a shiver. A small but robust conviction that something was very, very wrong.

  The phone book wasn't in any of its usual locations. He grew frantic, running around the house. He found it in Nina's office, hidden in a stack of paperwork beneath her desk. He knelt on the carpet and riffled through the pages. Stupidly, the name of the pub deserted him. Was it the Green Man or the Long Man?

  It was the Green Man. He used the phone in Nina's office and rang the number. Got the same result: no connection possible.

  He found a number for the village store and tried that. Same result. He stared at the phone book, then swiped it shut. This was absurd. Probably just a technical fault. And the TV must have the wrong place.

  * * *

  By the time he got downstairs, the situation had escalated. It was now the lead story. The background image was a distant shot of an idyllic rural village: red tile roofs and a church tower peeking from a stand of oaks. The news ticker read: SUSSEX SHOOTING: MAJOR INCIDENT DECLARED.

  There were two presenters, a middle-aged man and a much younger woman. The man looked grey and tired. The woman was perky and over-made-up.

  The man said, '. . . have now confirmed a serious shooting in the Sussex village of Chilton. As yet the extent of the casualties remains uncertain, but we do know that emergency services are at the scene in significant numbers, and the Major Incident Plan for Sussex has been initiated.' The words tumbled around inside Craig's head and finally made sense. He picked up the phone to try Dad again, then had a better idea. Abby.

  The number he wanted was on his mobile, and that was in the kitchen. He discovered the kids had grown bored upstairs and were watching High School Musical 2 on the little TV/DVD player.

  'I'm hungry,' Maddie announced.

  'Get yourself some sweets.'

  She gave him a sharp look. Such instant capitulation was unheard of. It prompted a reminder from Tom: 'Mum says we're not allowed until after tea.'

  'Is Mum here?' Craig said.

  Tom shrugged. Good enough for him.

  On TV the presenters were speaking to a retired chief constable. While they nudged him towards ever more newsworthy speculation, Craig listened to a phone ringing. And ringing.

  Then a slightly peeved voice said, 'Craig? It's been a while.'

  'Did I wake you?'

  'Don't be silly. I have a living to earn.'

  Now he made out the hum of traffic in the background. 'Where are you?'

  A gentle laugh. 'Classified, my dear. I could tell you . . .'

  'I'm watching News 24. Something about a shooting in Chilton.'

  Her tone quickly changed. 'That's where I'm headed. What have you heard?'

  'Nothing. I was hoping you'd know.'

  'Sketchy, but the word is another Hungerford.'

  There was a brief, blunt silence. Hungerford is a small market town in Berkshire. In 1987 a man named Michael Ryan had gone on the rampage, killing . . . how many?

  Abby said, 'So what's your interest?'

  He went to speak, but his tongue sat like a dry sock in his mouth. It was almost a surprise when he heard himself say, 'My dad lives there.'

  Abby Clark was a journalist on The Times. Fifteen years ago she and Craig had started out together on a local paper in Hampshire. Contact had been pretty sporadic in the past few years, which was entirely Craig's fault. She had been greatly amused to hear of his move into features and sports writing, without knowing much about the reasons that lay behind it. 'Always in search of the easy life, eh?'

  He hadn't taken offence. He never did with Abby. She could say the most outrageous things to him and get away with it. 'Because you've got a crush on me,' she'd once teased him, and she was probably right.

  Now she sought to reassure him. 'I'm sure it's not on the scale of Hungerford at all. You know what the initial stage is like. All kinds of rumours buzzing around. Terrorism, accidents, organised crime.' If that was supposed to allay his fears, it didn't succeed. 'I've tried phoning but the whole village seems to be cut off.'

  'The police have probably taken the lines down. Or commandeered them for their own use.'

  'Maybe,' he said. There was another reason why the police would cut off the phones, but neither of them said it aloud. A hostage situation.

  'I'm sure he's fine,' Abby said. 'I'll call you the moment I hear anything. Okay?'

  Despite everything, he smiled. Her concern was quite sincere, but this was also work. She couldn't afford to have her mobile tied up for too long on a personal call.

  He tried his father's number again. No connection. On TV there was a link to a local correspondent in Lewes, standing outside police headquarters. The correspondent had been told unofficially that casualty numbers were believed to be 'significant'. The interview concluded and the presenter gave a brief, unnecessary recap, emphasising the words significant and casualties with particular relish.

  'Quiet news day, was it?' Craig muttered. He could well imagine the excitement filtering through news agencies and TV stations across the country, perhaps even the world. Tragedy meant a story. It wasn't personal, and Craig knew that as well as anyone. He couldn't really blame them for sounding thrilled by what might transpire to be the death of his father.

  It was the first time he'd admitted that possibility to himself, and it brought him up with a jolt. Although in his seventies, his father was still fit and active. After a long legal career as a QC, circuit judge and finally a spell as Attorney General on the island of Montserrat, in retirement he'd found a new lease of life as a dedicated guardian of the village he had made home. If Abby was right, and someone had gone on the rampage, there was very little chance that Dad would have settled for running or hiding. Whatever the risk, he would see it as his duty to confront the gunman.

  Craig sighed. No point thinking the worst. He jabbed the remote control and the screen went blank. In the silence that followed he registered what he'd been hearing subliminally for some time, but had attributed to the TV.

  Dropping the remote, he got up and left the room. He was aware of a breathlessness, his heart beating in peculiar rapid trills. When he opened the front door the sound grew louder and unmistakable. Sirens.

  Goosebumps rose on his skin as he stood on the driveway and listened. The Maidenbower estate was situated on the south-eastern edge of Crawley, and the road in which he lived was less than half a mile from the M23 motorway. Sirens were simply part of the soundtrack of their lives, barely noticeable any more, but Craig had never heard anything like this. The noise was so intense, so unwavering, it could only be a whole fleet of vehicles, speeding in convoy towards their destination.

  And their destination was Chilton. Craig had no doubt about that.

  Briefly the sirens were drowned out by the deep throbbing burr of a helicopter. It raced overhead, travelling south. A few seconds later another followed. When someone grabbed his leg, Craig gave a start. He looked down to see Maddie, gazing at him with a concerned expression. The sound of the helicopters subsided, allowing the wailing chorus of sirens to dominate again.

  'Is that poli
ce cars, Daddy?'

  'I think so, darling. Police or ambulance.'

  'Or fire brigade.'

  'Or fire brigade,' he conceded.

  'There's lots of them. Has something really bad happened?'

  Craig tried to look genuinely untroubled. Lying to his daughter had never been such a challenge.

  'I don't know.'

  Nine

  Julia regained consciousness once on the way to hospital. At first she thought it was the man in black holding her down, and her relief at being alive was tempered by the knowledge that he had taken her prisoner. Terrified of being raped, she struggled against her restraints and tried to scream, but there was something blocking her mouth. As she thrashed in panic, she heard muffled voices, almost drowned out by a deafening clatter of engines. Someone shouted, 'Whoa! Careful!' and someone else said, 'Watch the IV. She'll pull it out.'

  She was moving, but immobile. Strapped to a board, being manhandled into a vehicle of some sort. She tried to open her eyes but saw only blurs of light. Her senses were overloaded by noise and movement and a terrible threatened pain. She could feel it lurking deep within her, like a deadly animal barely held at bay. If it broke loose it could kill her, and with this knowledge came an understanding that she mustn't struggle. She must accept her fate.

  She drifted away for a time, then opened her eyes again. Now it was a little clearer. She saw people huddled beside her and recognised them as paramedics. The terrible rhythmic noise increased, and a slice of blue sky shifted oddly downwards.

  She was on a helicopter. She was being rescued, not captured.

  Ten

  George Matheson sat in the waiting room, his mind blank. It was an ability he had cultivated through years of interminable meetings and seminars and tours of inspection. Rather like being in the royal family, he imagined.

  So he didn't think about Vanessa, or the prognosis. He didn't think about the business, or how it might be wrenched from his grasp. He didn't think about anything.